


Just Desserts

by missusmischief



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Humor, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missusmischief/pseuds/missusmischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Tom comes home from a busy day of interviews and public events to a dinner you’ve made him, he is nothing but grateful. After the meal, he decides to return the favor, and that now is the time for you and his long-awaited first</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Desserts

You and Tom had been going steady for a few months now and you’ve been feeling like absolute royalty the entire time. Tom was such a gentleman—not just to you, but to the world in general. There wasn’t even any catch; he was just nice. At first, you thought it was an act. His princely charm and chivalrous ways made you sick. Actually, no they didn’t, but you just really didn’t like them out of spite. They just all seemed too good to be true, but once he met you, you could see that they were, in fact, genuine. 

Slowly, Tom began to court you, show you off at premiers, and introduce you to all of his friends. At first, the social attention came unwanted, but as time passed on it seemed that you and Tom were the only two in the world, and the public no longer bothered you. He never pulled anything. On the night he asked you to go steady—go steady, you scoffed! Who even says that any more? It didn’t matter. It was cute. The night he asked you to go steady with him, you were elated, yet worried that, it would be an excuse just to try something on the way home, but he didn’t. It was nice; almost nice.

One night, though, after a long day of interviews, and those other dumb actor things that dumb actors do, Tom got home to a nice dinner you decided to prepare—just to surprise him. He thanked you with his words and the brightest grin that lit up his whole face when he saw what you had done. The dining room was filled with echoes of laughter over the meal, sharing sweet smiles and enjoying what you had prepared. It was such a sweet thing to do, he told you, and he kissed you. You loved Tom’s kisses, and when he grew out his between-role-stubble, it tickled your chin when he did.

During one kiss, though, it seemed he leant a bit into it more than he usually would have. This threw you off guard for a moment, but once you realized what he had been hinting at, you thought ‘Finally. God damn.’ You kissed back with equal fervor, running your hands down from his shoulders to his chest, loosening the knot in his tie. In response, Tom had chuckled his signature laugh; the one so many women had come to adore. He rested one hand on the small of your back, and the other tugged slightly at the zipper on the back of your dress, before loosening its grip, sliding it down with a satisfying zzzzip.

You pulled back for a moment, your lips parting with an audible smack. You look up at him, his eyes that were usually so doe-like, so full of light were half lidded, piercing into not your eyes, but your body, from the neck down. Quickly averting your gaze, you bring one hand that had been resting on his chest prior to your lips, covering your mouth in attempts to hide the flush and heat rising to your cheeks. You can still feel his eyes digging into you—and his hands tugging slightly at the shoulder s of your dress.

His large, warm hands run past your skin as he pulls down the sleeves, revealing your shoulders and back. Tom gazes down at your newly exposed complexion. He gapes at the flawlessness of it. You shift your arms, removing the rest of the sleeve yourself, before resting them back on his chest, up to his shoulders. You lean up to press a sweet kiss to his lips once again, before you stop, tensing suddenly when you feel his strong hands yank down the remainder of your dress, leaving it against the tile floor of the kitchen.

He takes this time, hands firmly gripping your sides to study you. Tom looks down at your form, one eyebrow quirking slightly as he examines every dip and curve, every blemish he thought perfect and every stretch mark he saw as roads on a map—roads to the areas he needed to adore. His grasp on your waist tightens, faint crescent red marks appearing in your flesh from the tips of his fingers. That’s when you shuffle slightly.

Tom snaps back to reality, his eyes locking with yours. You are startled slightly by his actions, a further heat rising to your face, causing you to try and blink his gaze away. He stares at your face—your eyes, your cheeks, your lips—, his eyes only widening slightly as his tongue darts out to wet his upper lip. You shiver, not only by his gaze that seemed to ignite a fire deep within you, but by the cool draft of the kitchen that night.

He leans in to kiss you again, this time his lips moving from your mouth to your jaw, his tongue snaking its way from under your ear to the nape of your neck, and you gasp. You shove him gently, your hands still curled at his chest. “Thomas,” you begin, breath hitching as his lips begin to suck and graze at your collarbone. “Thomas—don’t you think we should move to the bedroom?” You ask, warily, seeing as he’s having his way with you in the middle of your florescent-bulb lit kitchen.

He pulls back, eyes traveling from your hips up to your chest, past your neck and to your eyes again. It was slow. It was seductive. You trembled. “Yes—yes. Of course, yeah.” He stutters a bit, snapping from a lion threatening to tear you apart and devour you back to that dumb, chivalrous asshole he usually was. Damn it, Tom.

He takes you by the hand, and you are ready to follow. That is, until he dips one arm under your legs, the hand grasping yours shifting to your back, as he suddenly lifts you from the ground. You squeak, grasping onto his shoulders. “Jesus Christ!” You hiss, chest rising and dropping at the momentary panic of falling. “Warn me, Tom.” You scold him. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. What a dick.

He kicks open his door gently with the toe of his dress shoe, the hinges creaking slightly as he carried you inside. He turned to close it with his foot again, this time kicking it shut with his heel. He turns you back around, walking you towards his rather impressive queen-size bed with the soft pale linens. You remember a lot of cuddling here, a lot of kissing, and a lot of your makeup being smudged on the off-white sheets.

He removes his waistcoat, unbuttoning it from the front and shrugging it off his shoulders, tossing it off to the side unceremoniously. He unbuttons his dress shirt, sleeves already unrolled and collar wrinkles. He loosens his tie the rest of the way, the silk joining the waistcoat on the floor. After fidgeting with the buttons of his already crinkled and un-tucked shirt for far too long, Tom tears the rest of it open, a few buttons dropping to the floor as he tosses it away. You couldn’t help but think, Oh my God, his suits and dress shirts are so God damn expensive and he’s just ripping and throwing that shit around.

Well, that was all you could think about until your eyes traveled to his sculpted, fair body. You narrow your eyes slightly, gaze shifting over his abdomen, his hipbones, his arms that were flexing as he lowered himself atop of you. You were lost in him. You’d seen him shirtless before, but now—oh, now, it was different. Now you couldn’t keep your eyes off of his faint freckles and his fair complexion and the light hairs adorning his arms and chest.

You kick off your heels, throwing your head back as he begins attacking the delicate skin up and down your neck. Tom grazes his teeth over your jawline, his lips latching onto your earlobe for a moment, before dragging away as he moves his attention down your neck and to your clavicle. He pays attention to the soft skin, the slight protruding bone, biting and licking at it, humming into your skin. You gasp, fingers entangling themselves in his hair in approval to his actions.

He reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, fiddling with the hooks for a moment. No, it wasn’t just a moment. He fiddles with them for a while, leaning up slightly to look down at the garment. “Tom—“ you go to say you can remove it yourself. He interrupts you with a gentle grunt.

“No, no, love, I’ve got it.” He insists.

“Tom, I can get it.” You say, biting back a chuckle.

He finally unhooks the back of your bra after another few grunts and mumbles. He pulls the two ends of the fabric out from behind you, removing the straps of your bra along with it. He tosses the garment to the side, before leaning back to admire you. He’d been straddling you, you noticed, his knees on either side of your waist. He took this position to lean back and sit on you. Though it was gentle, and he was by no means heavy, he was far larger than you and you let out a large burst of air at the sudden weight on your pelvis.

Thomas looks down at you from there, admiring his work; the marks up and down your neck he had left, as well as the bite marks on your collarbone. He takes in your form. He takes in the shape of your breasts, and how they would fit perfectly in his grasp. He takes in your waist and how it’s the perfect size for him to wrap his arms around. He takes in your thighs, and how they are ridden with purple and red dark lines leading under the only garment removing you from being completely vulnerable to him. His breath hitches in his throat slightly, pupils dilating and his tongue peeking from between his lips to lick gently, wetting his dried lips, as if he had been parched.

You flush slightly—heat rising to your cheeks, your shoulders, your chest. Your lungs rise and fall, your hands beginning to tremble as he gazes down over you. That’s when you hear it—the button of his slacks unclasping and the zipper descending, as he slides the dress pants off his lean body, shifting slightly to kick them off at his feet.

You close your eyes in anticipation as he brings his hands back down to your form, thumbs slipping between the fabric you hadn’t exactly planned to be removing this night. Oh, but oh, you did not mind.

Tom removes his hands from you, and you whine quietly in disappointment. You prop yourself up on your elbows, only to see him leaning over to his bedside table. That’s when it clicked. Thank god he remembered, you sigh gently. You are relieved to hear the semi-familiar sound of the foil wrapper being torn. You lay back , closing your eyes once again.

His hands travel back underneath the fabric, tugging at the plot of silk and lace. He pulls the garment off of your legs. He is slow, he is careful. You toes curl and legs twitch slightly at his pace, your hands traveling back behind you to rest behind the pillow your hair pooled at and your head rested on. He presses his lips to your hip, dragging his tongue under your navel. He gently rests his hands under your thighs, guiding your legs apart.

“No, Tom. Don’t waste your time—“ you began, chest heaving in anticipation.

“I want to.” He insists, his trail of soft kisses becoming dangerously near your arousal.

“No, don’t. I’m ready now.” Your last word is coated with a gasp, your back arching as his lips come in contact with the growing heat pooling between your thighs.

He hushes you gently, the hum against your slick folds sending a good shiver down your spine. You moan in reply, gripping his curls between your fingers and sighing out a warm breath, his name following.

“Please.“ you whimper, fingers trembling as you grip his ginger tresses. He perks up, eyes widening like you’d just accidentally kicked your puppy.

“I’m sorry—“ Tom begins, flushed and embarrassed, as if he’d done something completely wrong.

Instead, you lean, and grab him by the shoulders, pulling him onto you. You whisper in his ear. You whisper that you need him. You whisper that you need him right now. Tom gladly obliges.

He slowly enters, as not to hurt you. Tom begins slow—so slow, you cringe. He begins so shallow. You grip him from under his arms, your nails digging into his back. You whimper, you whisper his name. He inches himself inside you, eyes lidded in the sensation. Your warmth, your wetness, your tightness, they cause him to stop in his tracks. This drives you mad.

“Deeper.” You moan.

And so, Tom obliges, just as everything so far this evening. He rolls to his side, much to your dismay. You look up at him, eyes widened in both shock and disappointment at the emptiness swelling at the pit of your stomach. Did you upset him? You begin to panic, begin to speak, before he rolls back over with a small journal, resting it at the pillow next to your head.

He dives back into you, carefully; though not as painfully slow as before, his hips rocking into you. He starts reading you poetry.

“Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first work on here. Yeah.


End file.
